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You reached your hands, placing your palms together to form a cup—a pillow for the satchel to safely fall downwards. You pulled the twine and opened the bag, revealing the pollen from the lands of the Elves; it bore a resemblance to shimmering rye; a bag of golden dust. You made anxious steps back: the beast was curled like an ophidian and was pushing its massive body and knife-edged scales up against the shedding roots. It was only a question of time until it would break out. You looked at what neighboured the marsh: fallen, crumbled twigs, fen bushes with their scarlet thorns, and mossy rocks, although the last ones were quite rare.
None of the rocks here were of great size, not a size you’d have a problem raising off the ground; the biggest of them, you’d fail to lift above your head. Hotfooting it, you reached one of such “impressive” rocks: it was greenish-black in hue and one-third swallowed by the even sludging mud, with a thick shell-like layer of lichen covering one side of it like a tumour. You scattered the pollen on it.
You waited; you were patient. There was no reaction. Nothing was happening. “How long does it take?” you prest Vermin.
“I-I don’t know! A minute, two … five?”
You couldn’t just stay here and wait like a scarecrow, that would be reckless. The bag, it was half-full, it had -a lot- of pollen left in it. If you wanted, you could try and bring more of the things to life but … the roots holding the part-alligator part-frog began to give in and break, and with another set of its ancient roots fallen to pieces, the Black Horn tree fell into upheaval. One side of its branches was gone, and the other was petrified, like a canvas paper between the trunk and the beast. Still, this Black Horn tree was massive, and it had many enormous branches wreathing and entangling together into contorted antlers in the shape of a sickle.
Carinda’s axehead was stuck in the middle of the stomach-monstrosity’s forehead; you master, certainly, would have been proud of your throw.
